


Cherry Syrup

by 1VariousStorms1



Category: Love & Legends (Visual Novel)
Genre: Brief Traumatic Flashback, But MC is there is help, Discussion of Torture, F/F, Helena is a sad duck, Implied Dubious Consent/Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 21:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1VariousStorms1/pseuds/1VariousStorms1
Summary: Helena tries ice cream and has a bad time.  Thankfully, she isn't alone.  Set whenever they eventually plop down in Chicago.





	Cherry Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this because I was craving ice cream. It was supposed to be 600 words and fluffy. I don't know what happened.

Her love places a bowl of strange, cold cream in front of her, with a green and silver spoon and a smile.  “Ice cream” she calls it.  Not iced milk, which Helena knows all too well, but cream, milk, and sugar whipped thick and frozen into a chilly decadent state.  It is another item on an increasingly long list of things she is discovering for the first time, things that are Of This World and not her own.  Helena picks up the spoon and delicately presses the metal down into the cream, scooping some up and eating it quizzically.  _Sweet_ is the first thing she perceives.  Very sweet and, of course, cold.

“It tastes like vanilla oil,” she comments.  The woman across from her nods enthusiastically.

“Yup, it’s vanilla flavored.  A classic.”  Helena notes that her lover’s bowl is not the same.  The woman sees her looking and grins.  “Mine is chocolate.  Wanna try?”  She grabs a spoonful and extends it across the small table.  Helena leans forward carefully and takes it in her mouth.  It’s just as sweet, but it tastes more like the bitter delicacy she remembered from her youth.  “Try some of this, babe,” she says, handing Helena an oddly shaped red bottle.  “Vanilla and cherry syrup are the best.  Just put some on top.”

The syrup is unnaturally red, but she does as recommended and puts a little into her bowl.  She tastes it again, and if she thought it was sweet before… The sugar, she thinks, would be enough to sustain an entire family for a week.  It isn’t a bad taste though, so she continues eating and eventually habituates to the intense saccharinity.  She mixes it all together, turning the white cream pink with alchemical cherry solution.  Her lover is doing the same, her gray eyes shining with contentment.

Helena remembers the Witch Queen, though she tries not to.  Memories throb just in the back of her mind, phantom wounds that push to the forefront of her awareness the moment she lets her guard down in her own thoughts.  Her scars extend deeper than skin and bone, and they are still too new, too vibrant and too ugly to ignore for long.  She wonders what her old mistress would have thought of this unusual treat.  Her moods could be unpredictable, but Helena decides on fascination and delight, and then shivers because the spoon suddenly feels less like a spoon and more like cold fingers in her mouth.  She has to set it down.  The queen would have almost certainly set Helena to work on discovering how this delicacy was made, and then she’d call the war council together to determine the best village to slaughter for their cattle and trade potential.  Violence was always the closest companion to the Witch Queen’s delight, a truth that Helena was intimately familiar with.

Her beloved says something, but Helena hears the Queen instead, remembering her amusement and her joy, the sure end result of a thousand different cruelties inflicted upon others.

“Are you thirsty, Helena?”  The sorceress cannot control her flinch as she becomes lost in the image of the Witch Queen in her mind _.  She is leaning over Helena, her pale face spotted with blood, her mouth smiling, and her eyes filled with laughter.  One hand grips harshly at blonde hair, and the other holds a goblet of cold, white milk, the same that Lennox’s dogs had delivered to the castle that very morning.  Her dress is ruined, but her crown is spotless as always, resting pristinely on her brow.  She is incandescent here, in her element, as she listens to her plaything beg.  Helena’s throat is dry and the words scrape and cut as they leave her tongue in choked whimpers, but her Queen looks satisfied, and the cool rim of the cup meets her lips_ \---

A hand waving in front of her face breaks the image, shattering it like the thinnest glass.  Helena blinks and focuses on her lover, who has never taken pleasure in suffering, who is not the Witch Queen.  “Earth to Helena,” she says with innocent humor.  “I asked if you were thirsty.  I’m getting up for a drink.  Do you want one?”

“Ah, no… no thank you, my love.  I am fine,” Helena says and is quietly amazed that her voice does not tremble.  She sits in silence and stares at her ice cream bowl until the other woman also sits back down.

“You should try to finish that before it melts, babe.”  Helena looks at her curiously, and then touches the bowl.  The ice cream, which had taken on a slurry consistency, solidifies once more under her magic touch.  Her love waves a hand at her.  “Or you could do that, that works too.”

Helena picks up the spoon again, running her thumb for a moment over the smooth, glossy green of the handle.  Plastic, it was apparently called, another substance Of This World.  She holds it tight, praying that its otherworldly nature will anchor her.  Then she takes another cautious bite.  That sweetness is ever present, but this time it makes her stomach ache.

“Oh, ha, here, babe,” she hears her lover chuckle.  A thumb gently wipes her bottom lip, but for a terrible moment Helena sees a different hand, pale and merciless.  _The bite of a nail, skin pulling and tearing, the metallic taste of blood that never really leaves her mouth_.  She rears back, knocking out the chair beneath her and thundering to her feet.  She pants heavily as tendrils of defensive magic curl around her clenched fists instinctually.  _Strike!  Run! Do not let her catch you again!_

But the Witch Queen isn’t here.  There is only her beloved, standing on the opposite side of the small kitchen table, her expression shocked, one hand outstretched.  Helena can see ice cream smeared sticky on the pad of her thumb.

“Helena…”

The sorceress recoils from the sound of her name, her magic dissipating from her shaking hands.  Shame puts a thick, acidic knot in her throat; it presses on her vocal cords and makes speech difficult, but she tries.

“I… Please forgive me, my heart.  I am… struck with awful foolishness.”  Her entire body is tense enough to ache as she bends down to replace her fallen chair at the table.  As she does so, she notices that her bowl was upended by her thoughtlessness.  “I’ve made a dreadful mess.” _Dreadful mess, how appropriate_.  “I will fix it though, with your grace.”

“Helena.”  Her lover speaks very softly.  Her voice is soothing and it _chafes_ bitterly against Helena’s heart.  She clutches the back of the chair hard enough that her knuckles turn white, and she does not look up.  “Helena, hey, sweetie… would it be okay for me to touch you?”  The question is unexpected.  Even now Helena is still taken aback every time the other woman asks before she does something.  The ex-general does not know how to respond to such consideration or courtesy.  The answer is no, and yes.  She craves her lover’s touch like she has craved little else, but knowing she’s done nothing to deserve it _hurts_ more than any pain the Witch Queen ever caused her.  Deaf to her struggle, her dearest continues, “I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.  Just tell me what you need.” 

_I need you, but you shouldn’t have to dirty yourself touching something like me.  Just another dreadful mess_.  That’s what she should say, but she has always been weak against need.  “You… can, if that is what you wish.”

“This isn’t about what I wish, honey, but I’m going to touch your hand, okay?”

“Okay.”  Out of the corner of her eye, Helena watches the other woman step close and reach out, careful and steady.  She feels her beloved gently, oh so gently, pry her fingers off the chair.  Her knuckles ache.  She hadn’t realized how hard she was gripping the wood.  Her dearest doesn’t do or say anything for a long time; she merely holds Helena’s hand in both of hers, running her thumbs over the back.

“Is this alright?”  A stiff nod is her response.  “Good.  Do you wanna talk about what just happened?”

“…No.” Helena is surprised by her own honesty.  Her lover just smiles and nods.

“Okay.  Why don’t you take a seat over on the couch?  I’ll get this cleaned up.”

Helena sucks in a breath and straightens up, stricken.  “N-no!  Please, love, I will take care of it.  You needn’t trouble yourself.”

“How about we do it together?” The other woman doesn’t miss a beat, still smiling brightly and bringing Helena’s hand up to her mouth to kiss her knuckles.  “Can you grab me the washcloth by the sink?”

The washcloth is damp from when they cleaned the dishes earlier that evening, cool as a balm, and she hurries to bring it to the table.  “Thanks, babe!  Go ahead and take these and put them in the sink.  Let the water run in the bowl for a few seconds.”  Helena is handed the sticky bowl and spoon while the younger woman takes the washcloth and starts to wipe down the table.  The rushing sound of the open faucet does little to drown out the chaos of her thoughts, and the cherry syrup turns the water the slightest shade of pink.  She has to turn away.

“There we go!” She hears her lover say.  The table is now nearly spotless once more, and the woman graces Helena with another cheerful grin as she walks over to deposit the soiled washcloth back in the sink.  Truly she is unfathomable, for Helena, even with all her scholarship and experience, cannot understand why she still looks at her with no trace of anger, irritation, or even resignation.  The Witch Queen would have expressed all of that and more, would have cast venomous taunts at her apprentice for even the most minute mistake.  In the end, that had meant that Helena worked with precision enough to stun even the Great Masters of magic and alchemy, but also that she was prone to second-guessing her every movement and measurement until she went mad.  She feels that same anxiety now, the conditioned drive to question all of her actions leading up to this point for all the good it might do, i.e. none.

But the fact remains that the Witch Queen isn’t here, and her lover has the patience of a saint.  It leaves the sorceress oddly adrift.  She has few points of reference on how to feel about such lenience.

Her beloved shuts off the water and takes Helena’s hand again.  “Let’s stay in tonight.  We can watch some movies and eat popcorn.”  She lets out an excited gasp.  “Oh babe, you’re gonna love popcorn, I know it!”  She tugs lightly, and Helena is helpless to do anything but follow.  This whole debacle has left her feeling like an exposed nerve with too many confusing sensations bombarding her on all sides.  Her resistance, her willpower, is gossamer thin and tearing at the seams.  Pain she can weather; harshness and criticism do little more than bounce off her hide these days.  But this… senseless patience and unearned acceptance are piercing her through. 

Her breath catches, and she has to stop.  The knot in her throat shifts, burns, and she can feel the same burn behind her eyes.  She is truly pathetic because she cannot summon a shred of steadfastness, and she is holding onto her composure by her fingertips.

It only takes a second for her resolve to break and the disgraceful truth to fall off her tongue.  “I… was thinking about _her_.” There’s no need to specify who she means.  Her lover turns back to her, her pretty face telegraphing plainly that she isn’t surprised.  Helena looks at the floor.  “Forgive me.”

The hands holding hers tighten.  “There’s nothing to forgive, Helena.  It’s okay.”

“ _It isn’t_ ,” Helena protests, her voice rough, her shoulders shaking.  “There’s no reason for me to… you’re here, and we’re safe and- and”

“Shh.”  Her beloved tugs lightly but Helena stumbles forward, her legs unsteady.  “Easy.  Come on, sweetie, sit down right here.”  Helena lowers herself clumsily to the sofa below, watching the other woman kneel down in front of her.  Slowly, carefully, her hands cup the blonde’s face, wiping away tears she hadn’t noticed until now.  _I am undone, dreadful_ , Helena thinks, as she leans helplessly into the touch.  “Helena, listen, I can’t begin to imagine all the horrible things she put you through for all that time, but I know enough to know it’s going to take more than a few weeks to recover from it.  Hell, for some people it can take years.  You don’t need to be totally over it now just because you’re away from her.  Don’t put that expectation on yourself.  It’s okay to need more time.”

“And what if there is no time?” Helena asks her fiercely.  “What if she is there waiting for us the moment we return?  If I cannot face her---”

“If that happens and you can’t confront her, that doesn’t make you weak, or a coward.  It makes you human.  You lived in pain and fear for years with her, and that doesn’t go away just because you want it to or need it to.”

“But if I cannot protect you…”

“Then we’ll run.  Run, hide, do whatever we have to.  We’ll call Reiner and the retainers for help.  They’re in this fight just as much as us.  We’re not alone.”  Her love leans in and places the kindest kiss on Helena’s cheekbone.  “You’re not alone,” she whispers against her skin.

“I do not understand how you can be so kind to me when I am too pathetic to guard you.”

Her lover lets out a soft snort.  “Well gee, maybe it’s because I love you?  _And_ , I know that you are the furthest thing from pathetic.  I still think about all the times you kicked the other generals’ asses, not to mention pummeling half of that stupid cult to pulp.  I’ve seen you take down dozens of soldiers like it was nothing.  Besides, you and Altea working together will absolutely send that bitch running with her tail between her legs.  I’m not worried.”  She smiles brightly, her eyes glittering with humor at the last statement.

Helena lets out a small breathless chuckle.  “Sometimes I think your optimism alone could win a battle.  You would be excellent at boosting soldiers’ morale.”

“Hey, until I get better with that sword, optimism is my best superpower!” She laughs and presses another kiss to the blonde’s forehead.

There is silence then, but not so heavy as before.  Helena focuses on her breathing.  When she feels she can speak without her voice breaking, she says, “I was remembering a time when we were… together, I suppose, although that word feels wrong.”  She watches her love for a reaction of any sort, but she merely nods her head, encouraging Helena to continue.  “The ice cream reminded me of it, I think.  She was very fond of iced milk and would often send those mindless fools on days-long journeys to fetch some.”  She inhales slowly, but only manages a feeble half breath.  “It hurt, and I was so afraid, exactly how she wanted me.  She feeds on fear and pain so much I’ve long wondered if that is how she fuels her power.”  She scratches at her neck with nervous fingers, looking for festering wounds that are long gone.  “She cut… she tore and _peeled_ …”  But she cannot speak any more of it, or she fears her lungs may collapse.  She presses her left hand over her lover’s where it rests against her face, keeping it there and focusing as hard as she can on it.

“That’s over now,” her dearest reassures her, taking Helena’s now limp right hand and pressing it over her heart.  She can feel the steady beat under her palm, and it pulls her back from the edge again.  “It’s you and me now, babe.  No more fear, no more pain.  Not here.”

Helena leans forward until their foreheads rest against each other.  “You are too good to be true.”

She laughs.  “Feeling’s mutual, babe.”  Her kiss is sweet, a thousand times better than ice cream.  She climbs onto the couch next to Helena and wraps an arm around her shoulder, inviting the blonde to lean against her before picking up that peculiar gray rectangle that is _absolutely a wand_ , no matter what she tries to tell Helena.  “Still up for a movie?  I’m feeling something animated, with singing.  Let’s check out the Disney section.”

“Individually I understand the words you say but taken together I think you are speaking nonsense again,” Helena informs her lover as she rests her head on the woman’s shoulder, able at long last to steady her heart and breathe easily.

There is a snort.  “That’s what I thought when I first talked to _you_.”  She calls forth an artistic rendering of a group of colorful cats on the dark screen.  The title reads: _The Aristocats_.  “I haven’t watched this one in years.”  She presses one of the little buttons and the images come to life in rushes of color and sound.  A man with a heavy accent singing about well-bred cats leads into a winding story about a whole host of intelligent animals that Helena has a hard time following, mostly because the animals in question talk and sing and dance.  It takes her some time to wrap her mind around that, but her lover evidently isn’t having the same problem.  She is humming along to their strange songs and giggling when they talk to each other.  She holds Helena close, keeping the two of them snuggled up together on this too soft sofa.

Helena loses track of the images on screen eventually.  Her beloved’s heartbeat, the vibrations in her chest and throat when she laughs and hums, and the way she absently plays with their interlaced fingers; these things are much more engrossing.

She doesn’t think of the Witch Queen again that night.  It’s a small step forward, but enough for one evening.


End file.
